


Before Them Years

by CrimsonFandomTrash



Series: Hawyee (RDRII Stuff) [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Backstory, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prologue, Terminal Illnesses, Trauma, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFandomTrash/pseuds/CrimsonFandomTrash
Summary: The main four's backstories (my interpretation, anyway).Chapter 1 - Arthur - 1869-1878Chapter 2 - John -Chapter 3 - Dutch -Chapter 4 - Hosea -Discontinued, for now, as I focus on my main fic. I'll eventually get around to finishing this, but that day is not today.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Beatrice Morgan, Arthur Morgan & Lyle Morgan, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Hawyee (RDRII Stuff) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477571
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Before Them Years

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to be read as a prologue for my main fic, titled 'All Them Years'. Could be read as a stand-alone, but....... Plz read my main fic, I swear it's my best work to date. Not to mention, I've put the most effort into it, considering the word count is 123,000+ as I write this note.

_**Winter** _ **_, 1869_ **

There was an eerie quiet that had settled over their small cabin somewhere in Maryland. The only sounds Arthur was greeted to now usually was the occasional scurrying and squeaking of rats, his father's horse whinnying outside, and the weak coughs mama made from where she'd been shut in her and pa's room for the past few months. 

Arthur ignored the muffled sound of pained wheezes and sputters his mother made every few moments as best he could, a pencil gripped awkwardly in his tiny hand while he doodled mindlessly on some scrap paper. 

With mama needing constant medical attention, pa wasn't going to work anymore. They'd started running out of food, Arthur heard his parents talk about it as he crept through the house one night after a bad dream. He'd timidly walked into the room, and his father, Lyle, had given him a look; Arthur'd been told several times he wasn't allowed to see mama very often, cuz pa didn't want him to get sick, too. 

"We could sell my toys." Arthur offered selflessly, knowing they also needed medicine for his mama, Beatrice, if there was any hope of her getting better. Doctors said it weren't very likely, but the small family of three was still hoping, anyway. "We need the money, right…?"

"Arthur, honey…" His mother had rasped out, reaching towards him. Arthur stepped a little closer, but not too close. She put her hand on his arm and gave him a weak smile. "That's so sweet of you, my lovely boy, but we'll figure something out." She assured him. "It's gonna be alright, darling." 

Arthur smiled back at his mama, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed her, much as he wanted to. "I just want for you to get better, mommy. I don't need stuff if I got you." He said sincerely, tears welling up in Beatrice's eyes. 

"Selling your stuff would be our last resort, dear." His mother told him as she gave his arm a light squeeze. "Thank you very much, though."

"I love you, mama," Arthur said, still swallowing down any apprehension he felt towards her state. 

"I love you, too, my darling boy." She'd said. 

"Go back to bed, son." Lyle had said, tone flat, looking exhausted. "Your mama and I don't want you falling ill, too."

His parents never thought of a solution to the money issue. Any frivolous things they owned at that point were all Arthur's, so, with no choice, Arthur's toys had been sold so they could eat and get medicine for Beatrice. Mama apologized over and over as pa went to sell them, but Arthur shook his head. "It's alright, mommy. I still got you and daddy."

"Such a sweet boy…" His mother said, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear with a smile before she cupped his face in her hand. Arthur leaned into the touch, knowing such a thing wouldn't be allowed if his father were there. "How lucky are we to be blessed with as wonderful a child as you?" She asked with a quiet laugh. 

Arthur sighed as he doodled. He did mean it when he said that he wouldn't mind giving up his things in order for them all to live, he really did, but now there wasn't much to occupy his mind with. Their dog, Henry, was great, but even he could only provide Arthur with so much comfort and distraction. 

The thing was, even at the tender age of six, Arthur knew full well what was happening to Beatrice. She was dying. Ma and pa never told him that, but Arthur could tell from the tears that seemed to linger in his father's eyes as he stayed loyally at her side. Being so young, though, Arthur was confused about what death implied, and he was unphased because he had yet to witness it.

Unphased was probably the wrong word because Arthur did have some sort of feeling about it all. Fear and anxiety bubbling at the surface made him constantly fidget, never knowing when he'd wake up and get told by pa that mama was already gone, not knowing what her being gone would truly mean. 

Either way, Arthur wasn't dumb, and he knew selling his toys to get medicine for her was just delaying the inevitable. 

But, he feigned ignorance. Whenever Arthur watched daddy give mama medicine, he kept his mouth shut, never once saying any of the things that swirled around his head. He didn't need to. Daddy knew she was dying, too. 

**_Spring, 1870_ **

Mama was dead. 

She seemed to be getting better there for a little while, but then steadily got worse again. Arthur was in the living area playing quietly with Henry when his father came out of their room, tears spilling down his cheeks, leather hat clutched to his chest, his head hung. Arthur immediately froze in his tracks as a feeling of dread came over him. "Pa…?"

Lyle slowly stepped forward and kneeled down to Arthur's height, leaving his hat on the ground in favor of putting his hands on Arthur's shoulders as more tears fell from his eyes. "Your mama is gone, son…" He whined. "I tried, I t-tried so hard, but…"

Arthur watched as his father broke down into sobs. A heavy weight felt like it was placed on Arthur's shoulders as his own eyes blurred over. "N-no, it's not true," Arthur said, but Lyle just kept crying. "She's fine, she just… Needs more medicine, r-right? We- we could sell some of my clothes, too-"

"It's too late…" His father wailed, and Arthur felt like his world had crumbled.

He shook his head fervently in denial. This couldn't be happening, she was supposed to get better, Arthur had thought she was nearly there. She couldn't just be gone. Not like that, not now, not ever. "Please, pa, say it ain't true…" Arthur begged him as his shoulders began to quake from the start of a sobbing fit he could feel coming on. 

His daddy didn't say anything for a real long while, staring numbly at the floorboards before he pulled Arthur into a hug. Arthur wrapped his arms as far as they would go around his daddy tightly, nuzzling into his chest as the tears began spilling from his eyes. "I'm sorry, son…" Lyle croaked out as he rocked them back and forth, trying to console Arthur, but it was useless. "She's with the angels, now…"

**_Summer, 1870_ **

Arthur stared out the window with a bored expression, feeling his stomach grumble. 

Daddy lost his job completely. With mama dead, daddy's boss gave him a week to mourn before ordering that he go back to work. Lyle never showed, fallen into the bottle, and hadn't gone back up. He sat a few feet away, snoozing on one of the few chairs they had left. "Daddy," Arthur called out, hoping to wake him, but it seemed useless. He stood from where he'd been sat on the windowsill and made his way over, shaking his father by the shoulder. "Pa, I'm hungry." He whined. 

Lyle just kept snoring, an empty bottle hanging loosely in one of his hands. He'd likely be out for the rest of the day. With a sigh, Arthur realized it'd once again be up to him to feed himself. Crossing the room to the pantry, Arthur struggled to get up on the counter so he could look through the cupboards. 

There wasn't much. A single apple, a pack of crackers, biscuits, some salted venison. Arthur took the crackers and apple, carefully climbing back down and sitting on the floor as he ate his tiny meal. He couldn't remember the last time either he or pa had eaten right. Mama was the one who cooked the meals, daddy always having a bad luck streak whenever he tried.

Arthur chewed on the stale crackers, feeling positively miserable as he realized just how much he missed mama's cooking. Not just that, but he missed her presence, as well. He'd never felt more alone in his life than he did now that she was gone. It felt a bit like there was a hole in his heart that couldn't be filled. 

On top of it all, Arthur was sure his birthday was near or had already passed. Mama wasn't here to celebrate. Pa was too anguished. Seven years old, or close to it, and Arthur might as well be an orphan. 

_ Things could be worse, _ he thought. At least his father was still alive. 

**_Winter, 1870_ **

On a cold night in late December, Lyle Morgan came home covered in blood with a mean look in his eye. Arthur was paralyzed to the spot as he looked at his father, who slammed the door closed behind him as he stormed in and hung his hat up. Blood on his face, on his shirt, his hands. 

"Pa! Are- are you hurt?" Arthur asked, rushing over to his father's side. Lyle put a hand on Arthur's shoulder and shoved him away with the same bitterness he'd displayed ever since he finally stopped sleeping and drinking the days away. Arthur tripped over his own feet a little as he was pushed, feeling lightheaded. 

His father immediately went to the box of liquor, pulling a bottle out as he plopped down in his chair and growled, "Ain't my blood, boy."

"What happened, daddy?" Arthur asked worriedly, hurrying back over to Lyle's side again as the man opened the bottle with his teeth, chugging from it to drown the pain in his soul. "Did someone attack you?"

"Get away from me, you stupid brat," Pa replied as he pulled the bottle away from his lips, sneering at Arthur like he was shit on his boot. 

Arthur flinched at the harsh treatment but wasn't too surprised by it. Ever since his father started partially functioning as a person again, he'd been cold, more likely to spit insults than hand out praise or love. Barely even looked Arthur's way, if he could help for it. "... Sorry, sir." He said quietly, looking down at the floor, unable to meet his dad's eyes. "Um… C-could I have something to eat, pa…? You were gone all day, I'm… I'm really hungry."

Lyle gave an aggravated groan that turned into a bit of a growl as he set the bottle down on the floor next to his chair. "Fuck off. Go feed yourself, I ain't got the patience for your whinin'."

"... Okay…" Arthur said, nervously playing with his shirt sleeve. "I… I was just thinkin', we have the stuff to make that stew mommy always used to, the real yummy one, and-"

Without any warning, Lyle swung his hand, striking Arthur's cheek. Eyes wide, Arthur cupped his face, too shocked to cry from the pain.

Before that, Lyle had  _ never _ hit him. 

Pa stood from the chair and Arthur backed up as his father began towards him, fists clenched, teeth bared, eyes narrowed in such a look of hate that had Arthur quaking. He kept backing up until he was cornered, his father looming over him, the fact pa hadn't washed the blood off just scaring Arthur further. "Don't." Lyle growled, "Don't talk about her, not ever again, y'hear me, boy?"

Arthur nodded shakily as his vision blurred over with tears, trembling in fear. 

"Go to bed, now." His father ordered through grit teeth, stepping back and going to his chair again. "Test me, 'nd you'll get a lot more'n a slap on the cheek." 

Arthur scrambled into his room quickly as he could, shutting the door tightly behind him before collapsing in front of it. He drew his knees to his chest as his face stung, head swirled, and heart ached.

Absolutely terrified, he muffled his sobs into his arms, not wanting to disturb his father on the other side of the thin door. Walls weren't very thick, either, which meant as Arthur soaked his shirt with tears, harsh breezes outside chilled his room; and, of course, him. 

"Mama…" Arthur choked out only above a whisper when he heard heavy snoring from the living room. "I-I want my mommy…"

Or, at the very  _ least,  _ wanted to talk about her, so she didn't fade away from memory. Then, she'd really be gone. Through all the hurt, there was also confusion that hovered over him like a rain cloud. Why had his father grown so cold? What'd Arthur done, to deserve being treated this way? 

When he could cry no more, throat dry, head pounding, Arthur trudged to bed, pulling the covers around himself tightly. If mama were here, she'd tuck him in, make sure he had enough blankets to fend him against the biting cold that the cabin walls only put up so much protection against. She'd kiss his forehead and turn off his oil lantern, leaving the door cracked open to allow the fireplace's heat to seep into his room. 

She'd tell him to have sweet dreams, and that if Arthur needed her, all he had to do was holler. She'd be there at his side in an instant to chase away the terrors of the night. Pa would have followed her in and told him that there wasn't anything to worry about, that everything was going to be fine. 

As exhaustion from the crying fit washed over him, Arthur wondered if anything would ever be fine again. 

**_1874_ **

Arthur sat across the table from his father wordlessly as they ate a meager 'meal'. The only reason they had a table and chairs was because of all the crimes his pa committed, Arthur knew that. Wasn't even so much the stealing Arthur cared about, as it was Lyle constantly coming home looking like someone just got beheaded over him. 

His father's violence streak started as cold and calculating. Uncaring. Unbothered. Sometime along the years, though, it'd turned into a sport, both towards strangers and Arthur. 

He couldn't understand why they needed a table, Lyle still never cooked, the lazy bastard. He'd long given up the hope of ever recovering from the shit way they'd been eating for just about three and a half years now. 

Foolishly, he still hadn't given up the idea of waking one day, his father being the way he was before mama died. The man who'd take Arthur on walks through the surrounding woods, put his hat on Arthur's head when he got home from work. The one who'd spend an hour every day making sure there was enough firewood chopped to last through the night. The man who'd use the days he had off of work hunting, so they would have fresh game to eat. 

Arthur was pretty sure he'd kill right about now for a decent, hot meal. A plate stacked with meat, veggies, and fruit. Closest thing they ever had to that was the canned stuff, which never stretched very far between him and pa. Mama wanted to plant a garden, Arthur remembered, though only distantly. Too bad she never got around to doing that. Arthur would have kept up with it, if only because there wasn't anything better to do, and he'd really rather sit outside all day than at a table with Lyle Morgan. 

His father was unpredictable as a caged animal, ready to attack at any moment. There weren't any patterns or certain things that needed to happen in any particular fashion that would set Lyle off. Sometimes, Arthur swore the man would beat him just for breathing wrong. 

And so, Arthur had grown accustomed to making his existence as insignificant as possible. He only spoke when spoken to, tip-toed around, tried to stay as far away from his daddy as possible. Didn't draw attention to himself, just sat still and quietly and hoped his father wasn't in too bad of a mood. 

Arthur could tell Lyle was most certainly pissed off that night. He huffed like a bison, tore into his food like a predator, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him, though Arthur was sure he wouldn't stop at just one. 

Arthur'd not even touched his supper, anxiety bubbling in him as he tried to be invisible, as unobstructive as he could in the hopes Lyle's eventual warpath may spare him. He stared out the window into the dark woods, wondering if he'd ever see Henry again; dog was starving even worse than them, daddy had started using him as a target, also, so Henry ran away about two weeks ago. Arthur'd thought Henry was kinda dumb, but maybe not. Henry had the sense to get away from Lyle Morgan. Maybe Arthur should have run away, too. 

As he grew up, the unfairness of life seemed to weigh heavier on Arthur's soul. Even forgetting the regular thrashings, Lyle also wielded words like weapons, and they always cut deeper than any belt buckle could. Arthur was constantly being told  _ he _ was the reason they were so poorly.  _ Yeah, cuz  _ **_I'm_ ** _ the one drinking all our money away, _ Arthur would think, but never dare say aloud. 

If father wasn't unjustly blaming their poverty on him, or beating him, he'd just plain insult him.  _ Stupid, ugly, worthless, pathetic, rocks-for-brains, brat. No-good bastard child, idiotic piece of shit. Weak little runt. _ It was getting to a point where, even when pa wasn't there, Arthur still heard these things swimming through his head constantly. Even with as hungry as he was, just thinking about it made Arthur lose his appetite. 

Weren't anything nice to distract him from the torture life was, neither. If Arthur wanted to wash up or clean his clothes, he had to do so in the river a half-mile away. They had a bathtub, but Arthur wasn't strong enough to carry the water that far, nor to put it over the usually empty fireplace he had no idea how to get going. 

Just to be cruel, Lyle had taken the few luxuries Arthur hadn't even known were luxuries, in the first place. He no longer had a pillow on his bed, nor did he have a sheet covering the uncomfortable material his bed was made of. His blanket was thin and did nothing against the cold in the winter months. All of his clothes (he didn't own much) were dirty, ill-fitting, covered in holes where moths and rats had eaten the fabric. His boots were too small and falling apart. He didn't have any books, not like he could read them, anyway. 

Every single pencil in the house had been burned, and his father made sure there was never any paper, either. With everything that could bring Arthur a shred of happiness gone, he was honestly surprised his father had let him keep Henry. That wasn't allowed to last, though, neither. 

As predicted, Arthur staggered (more like limped) into his room later that night, sore spots all over him that would no doubt turn into bruises over top of ones that hadn't gotten the chance to heal. 

The first two years or so of this treatment had made Arthur sob like a baby just about every time, but soon he'd started getting beaten for that, too. So, Arthur didn't cry anymore, or at least not loudly. Now, any tears that spilled were angry, tired, resigned ones, and almost always in his room with his door closed while Lyle was passed out soaked. 

How could Arthur ever hope to be free of this prison he once called home? He couldn't run away, wouldn't last five minutes on his own in the world. Couldn't talk his father down, he'd tried and failed so many times. Couldn't defend himself against the blows, even when Arthur knew they were coming. Not for the first, nor certainly the last time, he found himself wishing again for his mother. She never would have stood for this, would have packed her and Arthur's stuff, and they would have gone somewhere Lyle wasn't. Of course, the problem there being, pa was like  _ that _ because she wasn't here. 

Arthur wanted nothing more than to wake up, for the past few years to have been a horrible dream. To wake up yelling into the dark, and his mother would rush in to comfort him, and everything would be alright. He could hardly even imagine her face anymore unless he sneaked a peek at the picture of her he had hidden away. Couldn't remember the sound of her voice anymore, hard as he tried. 

He sighed, soul heavy, as Arthur tried to patch himself up with what he had. He'd need his strength to survive the next round of thrashings; though, what the point was anymore, Arthur had no idea. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lyle finally got caught for all his crimes, and Arthur was terrified. Much as he hated the bastard, he really honestly did, this was bad. His pa was sentenced to be hung in two days, and Arthur was pacing the streets of the nearby town. Didn't know what the name of it was, he couldn't read the sign. 

He'd already gone into the Sheriff's office and pleaded for his father's life to be spared. Lyle had chuckled from where he sat behind bars, looking bored, not helping his own case whatsoever. There was gunpowder and blood all over him. The Sheriff hadn't a single care about anything Arthur had said. Not that Arthur was only eleven, or Lyle was the only family he had left in the world. 

Arthur bit the nails of his free hand once he'd stopped his pacing in favor of running his fingers through his father's horse, Bullet's, mane. The only reason Arthur had known to go looking for his pa was because Bullet had shown up at their cabin without Lyle. Arthur had no idea how to ride a horse, and so he'd grabbed Bullet's reigns and walked, feet aching in his small, weathered boots. It was dumb luck that Arthur was ever able to get to town, having never left the cabin and the woods around it in his life.

What was he supposed to do? Arthur fiercely hated his pa, and if the circumstances were right, he would surely like to see him swing. Lyle Morgan had done so many terrible things, and Arthur knew a man shouldn't boast such egregious acts to a child, and yet, his father did. He was dangerous, angry, and sad; a horrible mix, resulting in a broken madman; only out for himself, no qualms about hurting innocents. 

The circumstances were  _ not _ right. If Lyle died, Arthur'd be shortly following him, of that he was sure. The universe clearly hated him, as the man responsible for his survival was the same who at times would rather threaten it.

His mother was dead, Henry ran away, now his father was awaiting a noose in a rusting cell. Not for the first, and he's sure it won't be the last time, Arthur thought,  _ I'm going to die. _ Even if his pa escaped, then what? Lyle could just decide to ditch him entirely, disappear somewhere Arthur wasn't so he could run, kill, rob, not have to ever come home to a dumb brat. 

There was no one else in the world that he had, much as he loathed the fact. The only time Arthur ever felt free from the constrictions of home and all the wrongness that lurked within was when he went for long walks in the woods, far from the cabin, and from Lyle. Regardless, he didn't want to make those woods his home, and that is what he'd have to do if his father died. Arthur had no idea how to hunt, make a fire, ride a horse, and he was unloveable. If he was thrown into the world, it would spell his demise. 

He tried so hard every time fear was beginning to spread through him like wildfire to calm down, but it never seemed to do much good, and now wasn't any different. Arthur sat behind one of the buildings with Bullet nearby, head spinning, vision tunneling, and a pit feeling in his stomach. 

Why did he have to be dealing with this on his own? This was too big a problem for him to solve, he was certain. Arthur wasn't strong, smart, brave, nor did he have anything other than the clothes on his back and a horse he had no idea how to ride. More than that, he had  _ no one. _ He could have absolutely  _ nothing, _ but be content anyway, so long as he wasn't alone, and his company didn't consist of his father. 

But Lyle was the one keeping food, however bland and unfilling, in the house. The reason there was a roof, though falling apart, over Arthur's head at all. He didn't have pillows, his blanket didn't work well, but some didn't even have that, and Arthur didn't wish that fate upon anyone, himself included. 

He left town only after he calmed himself enough to stand steady, and it was a miracle he remembered the way home. Arthur tied Bullet up outside the cabin and trudged in, tired, frightened, and alone. His feet were sore as Hell by the time he got there, the soles of his boots so thin from wear that they offered basically no protection from sharp rocks and twigs. 

Arthur couldn't sleep that night as a million scenarios played through his head. A lot of them consisted of his pa swinging, most of them focused on the repercussions against him, should that come to fruition. 

All the worrying and anguish was for naught, because as he was just about to drift off from exhaustion alone, he heard the front door swing open and slam shut, his eyes going wide. Familiar thundering footsteps sounded through the cabin just outside his room and Arthur quickly turned in bed to face away from the door, closing his eyes and pulling the blanket up over himself as he tried to even his breathing out. 

The booming steps stopped outside and Arthur heard the door creak open, cursing himself for how much he was shaking. His heart hammered in his chest as stumbling, loud feet brought someone nearer to him. His breath stopped entirely when the blanket was ripped away from him, and Arthur recoiled, scooting on his bed as far as he could into the corner, looking up.

Lyle was looking down at him with a bit of a twisted smile, more blood than before painting his clothes and a new looking bullet hole in his hat. "Miss me, son?"

**_May, 1878_ **

Arthur was tired, much more than any fourteen-year-old should be. 

Any simple joys he may have found before seemed to be completely gone. Walks in the woods no longer healed his soul, with that nagging thought during every outing that it didn't matter because he was gonna have to go home at some point, anyway. His father's track record with horses the past few years had been appalling, so much that he didn't even bother to name them anymore; just called them all 'boy' and 'girl'. Arthur was never able to get to know any of them very well like he had previous steeds because Lyle would barely have a horse for a week sometimes before it'd catch a bullet, or break a leg. 

Lyle blamed all his bad luck on Arthur because of  _ course, _ he did.  _ Cuz  _ **_I'm_ ** _ the one robbing, and shooting, and steering the horses into trees, and rocks. _

Arthur was just tired of it all, defeated by exhaustion. He no longer feared to tell his father what he honestly thought of him, even if it meant pa would beat him worse for longer. It was all pretty relative now; a few bruises, a lot of them, didn't make much a lick of difference in the long run, anyway. Not really. 

So, Arthur used the little energy he had during lashings to spit as many venomous words as he could in as little time as possible. Would call Lyle a piece of shit as a belt buckle struck his back, tell him he weren't no type of man before pa's fist would collide with Arthur's jaw. 

"Stupid, ungrateful little shit." His father muttered as soon as he was done misdirecting his wrath on Arthur. "Hope ya bleed out right where ya sit, dumb bastard." 

"Hope you get shot in the head." Arthur spat back with all the resentment he had. Lyle paid him very little mind, just growled lowly as he fell back into his chair and picked up the bottle he'd left on the floor in favor of needlessly beating Arthur. 

Arthur limped back into his room and quietly patched himself up as best he could. His father would always notice the mending of the wounds he'd caused, but never say anything about it. Maybe because he was glad Arthur was keeping himself alive so Lyle would always have something to kick and spit at when he came home. Arthur had no idea, he hadn't understood the man for years now. 

When would this Hell end? He couldn't help but wonder just about every second of every day. When would karma catch up to his father, when would the suffering and torture finally cease? 

The world was so unfair. Like a rabbit running from a wolf, Arthur was far outmatched. The wolf won time and again, it didn't matter how fast the rabbit ran. Why was it that injustice always came out on top? 

Arthur's whole body ached as he laid down in bed, slowly pulling his sad excuse for a blanket over him as his injuries protested the movement. When he finally was too tired to stay awake, Arthur had a strange dream of a pair of foxes, one silver, the other, black, licking a golden baby deer's wounds. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was staring out the window as he usually did when he spotted a figure in the twilight approaching their small cabin. Looking closer, Arthur panicked when he saw the man had two guns slung over his back and two at his side. 

He immediately ran across the room and shook his pa's shoulder; asshole was passed out drunk again. Much as he didn't wanna deal with him, he didn't wanna deal with that feller outside, either. "Wake up, you piece of shit…!" Arthur gritted out as he jostled Lyle harder. Lyle awoke in a blind fury, looked ready to strike until Arthur pointed to the door and told him, "There's a man outside with guns…!"

His father retracted his raised hand, stumbled and swayed as he stood, then the door was kicked in. The rusty hinges screamed as the man shadowed their doorway. "Who the fuck're you?" Lyle slurred as he drew his gun. 

The stranger had two deep scars on the right side of his face, Arthur remembered, looked like they'd come from an animal. He drew one of the rifles from his back and aimed it at Lyle. The man didn't speak. 

"If you know what's good for ya, you'll get the fuck outta here and tell no one about this." Lyle threatened, clearly not getting that he was outgunned here. 

The stranger still didn't reply, nor did he give any kind of warning before pulling the trigger. The gun went off with a loud bang, and the world seemed to slow to a halt as Arthur watched his father's brains spray onto the wall. 

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, his heart hammered in his chest, and he shook all over as the man slung his gun back over his shoulder, left without ever even sparing Arthur a glance. He was still frozen as he distantly heard hoofbeats fading into the distance. His eyes remained transfixed on the brain matter and blood all over the wall behind where his father had stood, now crumpled to the ground with a hole in his head. 

Arthur could barely get outside before he was doubled over, spilling what little stomach content he had, throat burning as he heaved into the grass. Tears stung his eyes as he convulsed and shook. 

_ I'm going to die, _ he thought again, and this time it felt even more real because this time it  _ was _ real.  _ I'm going to die, gonna die, this is it, I'm dead, I'm gonna die.  _

Arthur's breath stuttered wildly in his chest as he hyperventilated, vision growing black and heart pounding like it was gonna shoot into his throat. All at once, a thousand different scenes popped into Arthur's head of being murdered, starving or freezing to death, and now there wasn't anyone in the whole world who'd even miss him the smallest bit. 

He had no one now, not even father's horse, by the look of things. Must have run off because of the gunshot. No mother, no dog, no horse, no father,  _ nobody. _

Arthur sat on the porch of their decrepit cabin for an hour as he reeled. He wanted to throw up again but knew that he had nothing left to purge. His head span circles, and he was dizzy, and he was  _ scared.  _

_ I'm going to die, _ Arthur anguished again as he shakily stood to his feet and reentered the cabin, pointedly not looking at his father's body as he trudged to his room.  _ Can't stay here, _ he thought, picking up a small rucksack as he started to fill it with tears still blurring his eyes. 

Arthur couldn't take much with him. A change of clothes, a small water canteen. What little food was in the cupboards, a dull hunting knife. He found some of his father's old camping gear from when he'd sometimes stay away from home for days in favor of robbing and killing folk. The tent and bedroll were both dilapidated to Hell, certainly wouldn't shelter him once winter was upon the world. 

His father's satchel, hung by the door, didn't have much money in it, but Arthur took it anyways. He had to leave the photo of his mama behind, and so heartbroken about it, he paid her grave no attention on his way out. Didn't think he'd ever be able to look at it again, honestly. 

Then, still shaken and afraid, Arthur walked into the dark night and prayed to a God he didn't believe in for mercy. Prayed to find somewhere that could actually be home, to find someone who cared. 

_ Yeah, right, _ Arthur thought bitterly, anxiety gnawing at him as he stumbled through the pitch-black night.  _ I'm alone, now. Ain't no one gonna save a bastard like me. _

__ A boy could dream, though, right?


End file.
